how foolish of me
to think
late night conversations
could lead to
a sterling amount of love
cascading through me

but all it ever left
was a gaping hole,
stretching itself beyond
to greet the bane's den.

the neverending loop;

stuck-up little poet
thinking it would be
different,
poor little heart;
it had suffered enough,
let it rest.

little girl calling herself
a poet would like to know
what to do
with these memories
of warmth
from her
sun-kissed hand.

« no, no »

how stubborn of me
thinking
i could no longer be
time's fool.

to love only from afar
is a matter of hearts
begging to touch the other,
clad in drops of daylight,
mysteries of the night
as it calls upon
the dreary apparitions.

reaching out to grasp
nothing but the cold breeze,
the chimes of the forgotten fossils
of how we could have been.

you craft harmony
and rhapsody
with the way
you immesh your hands
with dust from the stars,
scraping against the sky.

this is poetry;
in its entirety,
soft and weak,
accepting as it goes;
made by the sound
of a blemished
and careworn heart
from heartbreak.

this is the
"could've"

the melted horizon
climbed upon your starry eyes,
i want nothing more than
being greeted
by your heavenly structures.

“from this moment,”
from the gentle breeze
of four a.m.,
your arms around me
never letting go,
the soft humming of your breath
against every little secret
that i had made.

“to this point in time,”
heated arguments,
saturnine interims,
moments i wish
i could take back.

maybe this is
all just a film.

an indie film
starring troubled teenage girls
finding out who they truly are;

a horror film
starring an ex-convict
being haunted by
his petrifying past;

a romance film
with cringy punchlines,
sly glances in the hallways,
passing notes during sessions,
a wink or a two.

this,
what we had,
was no more than
a documentary.

the brusque strokes of color
writing the art of detaching one's heart
in a single streak,
overwritten by harsh
and rash decisions,
regret bursting
through the air,
the feeling of being torn apart
by the swaying wind,
whispering,

the curtains
finally closed.

december twenty-seven,
your name still rings
from the atrophy
you had bestowed upon me.

how reckless,
the way i love with
trembling fingers
guiding you to every
isolated destinations
withering through every touch.

i could not speak,

for your eyes
spoke of the
inaudible string of utterance
i could not quite decipher.

december twenty-seven
how forlorn,
the way you left me
without an explanation.

when the outline
of your lips
brushed against
mine,

it molded perfectly
like its sole purpose
was to be with each other.

but when i was left
with nothing but the cold
and harsh breeze of november,

your kiss left me
writhing in pain,
bruises marked my skin,
a gamut of unfortunate events;

it was a
kiss from death.

the universe has a daft manner
of reminding me of
you.

your voice resembles the breeze
that blows during the ungodly hours
and i realize that
the mists and fogs
just want to deceive us with
empty promises
and fulfilling lies.

your eyes spoke of the way
the moon danced with the stars,
a secret affair with the sun.
they take in every detail;
from the freckles
that adorned my face
to the scars
that still crept into my heart.

your hands clasped onto the meteors
but you were too unforgiving
and the galaxies sent you away from me
to scatter along the heavenly bodies
and await for rebirth.